Different materials, shared ways of living

The houses in Wilson felt quiet at first, long and narrow, almost shy along the street. During our spring break field school in North Carolina, we worked closely with these shotgun houses. Measuring, sanding, touching their surfaces, I began to understand them beyond their form. They are simple rooms in a straight line, doors aligned to let air pass through, a porch at the front, but they hold a deeper intelligence shaped by living.

And somewhere in that process, my thoughts returned home to Sri Lanka.

Not because the houses look the same. They don’t. Shotgun houses are built with wood frames and wooden boards, while Sri Lankan vernacular houses often use wattle-and-daub mud walls woven with wood or sticks, finished by hand. The materials are different, the settings are different, and even the proportions shift.

But the way they live is surprisingly close.

In both, architecture begins with what is available. In Wilson, wood is shaped into a structure and skin. In Sri Lanka, earth becomes a wall, wood becomes a frame, and clay tiles rest above. Nothing is excessive. You can see how each house is made, how it has been repaired, how it has aged. These are buildings that reveal their making.

They also welcome in a similar way.

The front porch of a shotgun house and the long veranda of a Sri Lankan home both act as threshold spaces that belong neither fully inside nor outside. They are places of pause. People sit, talk, watch the street, and greet neighbors. Life gathers there quietly. These edges soften the house’s boundary, allowing it to connect with its surroundings.

Climate, too, shapes both in quiet ways.
In Wilson, the alignment of doors allows air to move through the narrow plan. In Sri Lanka, thick mud walls cool the interior while shaded verandas protect from heat and rain. Different solutions, but a shared intention to live with the environment, not against it.

And yet, today, a distance is growing.

In many parts of Sri Lanka, wattle-and-daub houses are slowly disappearing. Replaced by concrete, they now remain mostly in rural settings, often overlooked. The knowledge that shaped them, the understanding of material, climate, and community, is becoming less visible.

Standing in Wilson, working on shotgun houses, I felt that contrast more clearly. One context where vernacular buildings are being studied, repaired, and valued. Another where similar wisdom is fading quietly.

That space between is where I find myself.

Between earth and wood.
Between the veranda and the porch.
Between Sri Lanka and the United States.

Vernacular architecture does not need to look the same to be connected. It is linked through intention through simplicity, adaptation, and the way it holds everyday life. These houses remind me that architecture is not just about form or style, but about how a place receives people, responds to climate, and continues over time.

Sometimes, understanding one place helps you see another more clearly.

And somewhere between a shotgun house in Wilson and a wattle-and-daub home in Sri Lanka, there is a shared language, quiet, grounded, and still worth listening to.